She Thought God was Dead
by Oparu
Summary: Random and shameless Dogma crossover. Elizabeth is visited by the voice of God, who happens to have distinctively scruffy hair.


b I think God is dead /b 

Maybe Kate was right. All she needed was a man, even if he was only a man for ten minutes. Elizabeth Weir stared at the ceiling of her three-year-old but still scarcely lived in apartment and wondered if what it was about an orgasm induced by someone other than herself that made it so much more life changing. Perhaps it was that in spite of her professed lack of faith, she still clung to a religion that suggested self-induced carnal pleasure was a sin. That didn't seem to take away from the few moments of head-pounding enjoyment she tried not to bitterly cling to at the end of her day, but she was afraid it cheapened it somehow.

She was halfway into a fairly mundane dream when it happened. At first it seemed to be the catalyst for her ordinary dream taking the last turn around the bend of routine into the truly extraordinary. In this fantastical case, extraordinary consisted of a wall of fire suddenly appearing at the foot of her bed.

"Behold the Metatron, herald of the Almighty and voice of the one true God," began the incredible voice. His voice, the kind of voice that sounded like it should be commanding the final, abrupt end to the world, echoed with a kind of authority she'd never heard before. Perhaps it was in homage to the fact that it was a dream that she managed to have the presence of mind to throw her blankets towards the fire and make a run for the bathroom and the relative safety the water there provided.

For some reason truly beyond her comprehension, the blanket did immediately burst into flame, and regardless of the billowing smoke, two hands caught it and a voice behind them sputtered in the same echoing tone Elizabeth didn't think truly belonged in this reality. "Watch it," it- the fire- or more appropriately- he- complained as he dropped the blanket and quickly extinguished both the blanket and the fire.

In the clearing smoke, brushing ash and pieces of what had been the one quilt she'd managed to keep in the biter divorce from Simon, a man brushed his hands against his black trousers, shook ash from his hair and stared at her in mildly pathetic looking annoyance.

"I was warned about fire extinguishers," he quipped dryly as he noticed the bathroom sink behind her. "May I?" he asked politely, surprising her as he pushed past her and took advantage of her sink and bright yellow hand-towel to clear the ash from his face. "I'd fix your quilt if I could," he offered sheepishly. "But I don't think I could get that kind of request for divine intervention cleared without a better reason than you threw it at me."

Up close, and not obscured with a towering pillar of orange-yellow flames, he was unreasonably attractive. He had stunning green-brown-hazel (the right color hadn't really been added to her vocabulary) eyes, soft lips, a hint of stubble and unruly dark hair that shouldn't have been able to stay in the position it was in. He was only wearing a black t-shirt and some kind of zip-up sweatshirt that looked like something a university student would have tossed up to look presentable instead of his pajamas.

Maybe she could still blame the fiery entrance for the stubborn refusal of her tongue to function.

"Okay," he offered softly biting his lip and looking almost boyish for a moment. "Let's try this again." Stepping back away from her, he seemed to absorb all the light in the room as his voice took on the ethereal quality he had when he first appeared at the foot of her bed.

Wings, glorious feathered wings erupted impossibly from his back and he extended his hands outward. "I am the metatron," he intoned easily captivating her attention in a way no one had since she was a very small child.

"I thought you'd be taller," Elizabeth failed to contain her observation as she stared helplessly at his wings. i Dear God he had wings. /i 

"You know," he paused thoughtfully wings dropping a little as his voice slipped back into the casual American accent he'd used in her bathroom. "I get that a lot. If I could be candid?" he asked hopefully wings perking up like a puppy's ears as he spoke.

Losing the ability to speak properly again, Elizabeth just nodded.

"First off," he began with an unbelievably charming half-smile, "Thank you, for knowing what Metatron is. I thought I'd have to explain it and that's not really my thing, the explaining part. I don't do it nearly as well as the last guy."

"The last guy?" Elizabeth asked as she returned his smile. It was impossible not to be amused by the way he, by some force of hidden, divive talent, was managing to slouch in his wings.

"Did a really good job on the last Zion bit, got himself promoted." The Metatron explained cheerfully. Then he paused, and when he sighed his wings dropped back down and the puppy analogy cemented itself in her mind. "See, it's not supposed to be me, Mack, got this gig after the last Metatron and he's really way more impressive than I am--" he interrupted himself and grinned sheepishly again. "But, he's uh- well- a little occupied at the moment and I thought--"

"So you're second string?" she asked in innocent amusement.

"Well, more like an emergency substitute," he corrected as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for being nice about it and I will help you clean up this mess if you want, I think I have a little time--"

"It's all right," she interrupted him with a wave of her hand. The motion made her remember that she'd gone to bed in just an old t-shirt from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and her favorite pair of pajama pants that had the huge hole in the thigh. Her hair was probably also a mess. Her hand went immediately to it at that though and she tried to smooth it without looking like she'd just realized how much a of scrub she looked like at the moment.

"You know, why don't you just call me John and I'll feel better and I'll get on with your assignment," he suggested without removing his hands from his pockets.

Elizabeth suddenly realized that he knew exactly what she was thinking as she tried to decide how long her nipples had been visible through the thin fabric of her shirt. Instead of blushing, or averting his eyes, he kept them steadily on her face. It was an unnerving as it was comforting, but she decided to cling to the second emotion. "Elizabeth-" she started.

"I know," he interjected smirking. "You, Elizabeth Weir are about to be charged with a divine mission."

"Am I an emergency replacement too?" she teased shocked by her own insidious desire to flirt with him.

"Actually," he grinned and bit his lip thoughtfully. "You're the perfect person for the job."


End file.
